


Causality

by unsettled



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Consent Issues, Crying, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, First Time, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Alteration, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Oral Sex, Peter POV, Peter is still 16, Praise Kink, Quentin POV, Quentin is an asshole, Regret, Rough Sex, Spiderio Mini Bang 2020, Underage Sex, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26074303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Peter doesn’t know where this obsession with Mr. Beck came from, but he’ll take anything Mr. Beck will give him. And if it hurts, if it makes him feel less than awesome— it’s probably his fault, because Mr. Beck is so nice and would never hurt him.Look, Beck hadn’t meant to give Peter a crush when he drugged him to get EDITH, but if Peter’s offering… he’s perfectly happy to fuck Peter just as he likes. Never mind if it’s not something Peter ends up liking very much, because that’s easy enough to fix with another round of drugs.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 114
Collections: Spiderio Mini Bang 2020





	Causality

**Author's Note:**

> I was paired with the lovely [Multifangirl69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifangirl69); their moodboards and edit can be found on their [tumblr](https://multifangirl69.tumblr.com/post/627448576474333184/moodboards-for-the-spiderio-mini-bang-2020).

*

“For the next Tony Stark I choose you,” Peter mutters to himself, and darts this look at Beck, considering. He opens his mouth, still looking at him, and then glances down at the glasses, not saying anything at all. 

Shit, Beck thinks, that felt like it might have been the moment he was waiting for, that he needed. Should he give it a little more of a push, maybe?

“What?” he says, leaning a little closer.

Peter shakes his head with this faint little smile. “Nothing,” he says. “It was just a stupid idea.”

No, _no,_ that is not— “I’m sure it wasn’t,” Beck tries. “Come on, what was it?” 

Peter just shakes his head, and Beck grits his teeth. Fine. Fine, he didn’t want to take the risk, but it looks like he’s going to have to try the drugs.

Mind you, it’s not that he’s opposed to using a hallucinogenic memory altering drug on Peter, or anyone for that matter. It’s more that they still don’t have any real long term examples of what might happen, if this might come back to bite him in the ass at some point. And that he doesn’t really know how, or even if, this might have any effect on Peter. Who really knows what the full extent of those freaky spider powers are?

He leans in even closer, putting his arm on the bar next to Peter, and hits the release. It’s invisible, colorless and odorless, which had taken some real work. Gives it a second, and then hits it again; it’s not like a double dose is going to kill Peter, and better safe than sorry. 

“Really,” he says, “what were you thinking? I’d like to know, kid.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, and then just stops as the gas hits him. He shakes his head, blinking, bringing his hand up to his head. “Uh,” he says, rubbing at his nose a little, “I—” 

Stops, again, and frowns, like he can’t remember what he was going to say. He stares at Beck, and even in the relatively dim light of the bar, Beck can see how his eyes have gone unfocused, how his pupils are growing larger by the second. 

“Peter?” he says, carefully, watching. Peter just blinks at him, his mouth hanging a little open; he looks really stupid.

“What?” Peter says. “I mean, sorry, you were— uh,” and he’s almost mumbling, words running together. Well, it’s doing something to him at least. 

It’d worked best in trials to sort of… suggest. Lead the subject in the direction you wanted, and let them piece things together, rather than trying to give them direct orders, or specific story to remember. 

“Hey,” Beck says, smiling at Peter. “You trust me, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, instantly, which is great; he should be able to build off that easily enough. He needs Peter to say it, though.

“Do you? Really?”

“I trust you,” Peter says, and he’s slumping a little against the bar. “You’re trustworthy,” he adds, stretching out the words. 

“Good,” Beck tells him. “That’s great, Peter. You know I can handle things, yeah?”

“Sure, you can handle things. Better than I can,” the last bit quieter, almost an afterthought.

“So whatever you throw at me,” Beck says, “I can handle. And if I’m taking care of it, then you don’t have to worry about it.” Peter nods, and then can’t seem to stop; Beck gives him a moment and then reaches out, catching Peter’s chin just long enough to still him before he puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve got enough to worry about, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs. “So much. Sooooo much.”

Teenagers, Beck thinks. So melodramatic. “What’s worrying you the most, Peter?”

Peter ducks his head, staring down at the glasses still in his hand. “EDITH, huh?” Beck asks, and Peter nods again, this time managing to stop himself after just a few. “I could help you with that.”

“You could help me,” Peter says, slower, repetitive. 

“I could. And it’d be safe to let me help, even with EDITH, because you know I’m safe. You can feel safe around me, because you trust me.” He pauses. “You do feel safe with me, don’t you?”

“I feel safe around you,” Peter says. “You— you tried to keep me safe. You didn’t want me to have to fight, you told me to run away. You want to keep me safe?”

“That’s right,” Beck says.

“Tony wanted to keep me safe,” Peter says, drooping, and while that’s not something Beck likes, it’s a good enough thread to follow.

“I’m sure he did,” he says. “I know you want Tony to be proud of you. What do you think would do that?” Peter stares at him, blankly, no answer forthcoming. “It wouldn’t be keeping EDITH all to yourself, would it? When that’s already caused some… problems?”

“No,” Peter says. “No, it wouldn’t. He’d be— so mad.”

“Well, he might be proud if you asked for help,” Beck tries. “I’d be pretty proud of you if you did. It’s not easy to, but I’m sure you could.”

Peter hesitates, staring back down at the glasses, and yes, that’s it, isn’t it. “You can ask me for help, Peter,” he says, gently, cajoling. “I wouldn’t judge you for it, for any sort of help. I’d like to help, in fact, so it’s ok to ask me for anything you need.”

“It is?”

“Of course it is,” Beck tells him. “Completely ok. I’m happy to help you out, and— you want me to be happy, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, almost too softly to hear. 

God, this is excruciating. Fine, play on that desire to be good, Beck thinks. “I like you, kid, and you like me too, don’t you?”

Peter smiles. “You’re pretty great,” he says, not quite looking at him. 

Beck ducks his head until he can catch Peter’s eye. “Back at you,” he says. “You like me enough to let me help, right? I mean, you wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, after all.”

“No!” Peter says, startling. “Of course not! I like you, and— you can help! Man, that’d be so great, and you’re great, and, yeah. You could help? Uh, I mean, would you help?”

It takes some real effort not to laugh at Peter’s stumbling, desperate attempt to say the right thing, whatever it might be. “I would,” he says. “In fact, why don’t I help you right now, with EDITH? You could just… give her to me. For now,” he says, hastily, as Peter’s brow furrows. “Because I really could help with that, and then you wouldn’t have to worry so much, and I’d be happy. You’d be happy too, wouldn’t you?”

Peter’s turning EDITH over and over in his hands, slowly, staring at them, and Beck gives him a moment because it looks like Peter is actually sorting through all this, hopefully putting the pieces together in a way that gets Beck what he wants. 

He waits, and waits, and just as he’s thinking that maybe he should give it another little push, Peter shoves the glasses at him.

“Here,” Peter says. “I want you to have these, because you can handle things—handle these—better, and I trust you. And I like you. And I think you’d make Mr. Stark proud too. So you should have them, because it’s just, the better thing to do. Isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Beck tells him, and it’s interesting which pieces Peter latched onto, how he fitted them together. Nothing there about being helped, even if he’s sure Peter’s thinking it; but it’d be hard to admit that, wouldn’t it. And nothing in there about making Beck happy, but that was definitely something that tipped the scale. 

He listens to Peter transfer control, and takes the glasses from Peter so carefully, much more carefully then Peter had been handling them. “You did good, kid,” he says, slipping them on and smiling at Peter, and yeah, he knows exactly what sort of resemblance he’s going for. “I think that was a really smart decision.”

Peter stares at him for a moment, his eyes widening, and then smiles, lighting up his whole face. 

It’s promising. 

*

“Hey, um, Mr. Beck? I mean Mysterio, sorry.”

Mr. Beck pauses, looking back at Peter with an eyebrow raised, but at least he’s smiling, Peter thinks. He’s still never quite sure where the line is between the two; Mr. Beck isn’t quite as cagey about his identity being secret as Peter is, but they’re still at SHIELD, and he’s still in his armor, so it’s probably safer to go with Mysterio, right?

“Mr. Beck’s fine, kid,” Mysterio— Mr. Beck says. “Or Quentin even,” and— maybe Peter should try that? But he just can’t quite seem to stop thinking of him as Mr. Beck, even in his head, even when it’s… um, really weird to think of him like that. 

“Do you have a minute?” Peter says, catching up with him. “I wanted to ask if I could talk to you about something that’s been on my mind?”

Mr. Beck tilts his head to the side just a bit, and Peter hopes he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. “Sure, we can talk. What’s up?”

“Actually,” Peter says, “do you think we could maybe talk somewhere a little more private? I just, I kinda don’t want anyone interrupting me, and it’s— a little embarrassing,” and wow, that’s an understatement. It’s super embarrassing, and what is he thinking anyway? This is a terrible idea. Nothing good is going to come of this except for probably screwing everything up, and it’s been… nice, working with Mr. Beck so much more. They worked together well enough in Venice and Prague, but it’s so much better now that they know each other more. 

And Mr. Beck never really seems angry or annoyed when Peter isn’t entirely sure about things. Even after— even if it meant he wasn’t there to help with London, and he— well, the less said about London, the better. He’s still trying to make up for that with everybody else. 

“You know what,” Peter says, “it’s ok, we can talk about it some other time, it’s not that important and it’s kinda dumb and you probably want to get home so I’m just going to—”

“Peter,” Mr. Beck says, interrupting him, “breathe! Honestly, I’m sure you’re getting yourself all worked up for nothing. Of course we can talk now. Come on,” and he moves on, Peter trailing behind as Mr. Beck knocks on a couple of doors until he finds a room that’s neither occupied nor locked. 

“Here,” he says, and leans back against the edge of the table, his hands curled over the edge. “What’s got you so worked up?”

Oh man, this is such a terrible idea. It’s just— Peter hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, ever since the trip. It’s in the back of his head, constantly, even when he’s not around Mr. Beck, even when he hasn’t seen him for a week, and it’s so much worse when he’s actually near him like this. Or when they fight, and Mr. Beck is so good at it and tells Peter he's glad he’s there, and it’s driving him crazy how much he _wants._

“I mean,” he says, “someone could still come by and decide to come in or something, maybe this should wait.” It should totally wait until Peter has gotten his head under control, because this is stupid. He couldn’t even tell MJ he liked her, so why does he think this is going to go better?

Mr. Beck frowns faintly. “So we ask them to leave. It’s fine, Pete.” He shakes his head when Peter hesitates, and Peter can’t help how his hands have started to fiddle pointlessly with his mask, twisting it up in ways that probably aren’t great for it. “Look,” Mr. Beck says after a moment, “I’ll cloak us, will that settle you down? Come on, you’re driving me a little nuts.”

Peter closes his eyes. Great, just… great, he’s already making it weird, why did he think he could do this? “Yeah,” he says, “that’d be good, if you don’t mind?” 

He can’t actually tell if he’s hidden now or not, but there’s no real reason to doubt it. At least that’s one less thing to worry about for now. 

“Ok,” he says, slowly. “I, uh. So— I trust you? Sorry, that’s not a question, I mean, I do trust you, completely. I trust you, and I know you’ve got like, experience with stuff and I know I can tell you anything, and it won’t be weird, right? Because you won’t—you don’t—make it weird.”

“I won’t make it weird,” Mr. Beck agrees, and he’s definitely trying not to laugh. This isn’t really how Peter wanted this to go, but since when do things work out like he wants?

He’s just. He’s going to say it. Maybe it’s going to be a huge mistake, but at least it’ll be over, right? And he’ll know. He has to know, he can’t keep feeling like this and wanting and not having at all forever. 

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I feel safe around you. Like I can be myself around you, and not have to worry about what you’ll think of me, and you know about Spiderman and about me, and it’s ok. You’re cool about it. It’s— I just feel better around you? I like being around you. I, um.” He swallows. “I like you. Like, I _like_ like you.”

Mr. Beck’s just kind of looking at him, like he doesn’t really get it, sort of slightly amused and concerned, but he’s paying attention. He’s paying attention to Peter. 

“Maybe it’s weird,” Peter says, and it’s totally weird, “and kind of wrong, but maybe it’s not, and— maybe you’ll be really mad at me after, but— but maybe you won’t, so um—”

Peter takes a step forward, which puts him a little too close to Mr. Beck; slouching like he is, the difference in height isn’t that great, so Peter only has to tilt his head up a little when he leans in the rest of the way and kisses Mr. Beck.

Mr. Beck’s lips are warm and softer than Peter thought they’d be, his beard a little scratchy on Peter’s skin. There’s a moment where nothing happens, like Mr. Beck is just frozen, maybe surprised, and then … and then there’s still nothing, no response, no reaction, no kissing Peter back, and oh fuck, he really did screw this up, oh no. 

He pulls back as fast as he can, and god, he feels so _stupid._ “I’m sorry,” he says, looking down, “oh my god, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad— I mean you can, you should, but— I know I shouldn’t have, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He takes a half step back, and all he wants to do now is go crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’m just going to—”

“Wait, no,” Mr. Beck says, and puts a hand on Peter’s hip. “Peter, come on. Calm down— I’m not mad, I just… you caught me by surprise, you know? Give me a break, kid, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Peter laughs, this sort of horrible, high pitched noise that makes it sound like he’s about to cry, and he’s not. He puts his hands over his face. “God,” he groans, “I’m such a fuck up, why did I do that.”

“Hey, stop it.” Mr. Beck says, and then his hands are around Peter’s wrists, tugging at them, pulling his hands away from his face. “Come on, look at me.” Peter could fight it more; he doesn’t have to let Mr. Beck do this, but he does, lets Mr. Beck look at him, freaking stare at him, like Peter’s got something on his face and it’s kind of awful. 

“How long have you felt like this?” Mr. Beck says. “Or been thinking like this?” 

“I don’t know,” Peter mutters. “A while. Since Europe, at least, maybe since… Prague? It just sort of snuck up on me, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About how it felt to be around you, how you made me feel when I was around you. It just felt… right. It felt right, like it was supposed to be like this. It felt safe. And—” Ugh, maybe it’ll sound stupid when he says it. 

“It felt right,” Mr. Beck repeats, “and safe,” a little thoughtful. “What else were you going to say?”

“Just… I thought,” Peter says, slowly. “I thought maybe, you liked being around me too? That it made you a little happier too, and I want you to be happy, you know? I like you, and even if you don’t like me back, I still want you to be happy. I kept thinking about how I wanted to spend even more time doing stuff with you, and then… somewhere along the way, I started thinking about, um, other stuff I wanted to do with you. A lot.”

“Huh,” Mr. Beck says. He’s kind of looking through Peter, unfocused, like he’s thinking really hard about something, and man, Peter hopes it’s something good. 

He drops Peter’s hands then, and Peter doesn’t know quite what to do with them, with how close he’s still standing to Mr. Beck. He hesitates, and in that moment Mr. Beck reaches up and sets a hand under his chin, tilting Peter’s head back. 

Kisses him, gently, slowly, and all Peter can think is _thank god._

It’s nice. It’s really nice; Peter hasn’t done a lot of kissing— ok, he’s done like no kissing at all, but this is great. He really hopes he’s not doing it wrong, or bad; he probably is, cause it’s not like he has any clue what he’s doing, but Mr. Beck isn’t acting like it’s bothering him, so Peter’s just going to go along with whatever he does. He tilts his head a little more when Mr. Beck’s hand shifts on his chin, and presses forward when Mr. Beck pulls back just enough to tease, his lips barely brushing against Peter’s, like he’s daring Peter to go for it. 

Opens his mouth, tentatively, when he feels Mr. Beck’s tongue touch his lips, and the feel of that, between his lips and against his own tongue, is really freaking hot. Like, he knows what frenching is, he’s seen it plenty, but he hadn’t been able to really imagine it right at all. It’s not really wet, that’s not the right word, but it’s— slick, in a good way, humid and warm and it makes him feel a little like he can’t quite breathe. 

Mr. Beck pulls away, eventually, too soon, and Peter doesn’t want him to. “Like this, hmm?” Mr. Beck says, soft.

Peter blinks; looks up at him, still feeling so nervous about this, even if it seems like maybe this wasn’t a stupid idea because Mr. Beck is kissing him back, maybe wants him too. “Yes?” he says. 

Almost doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t want to sound— needy, but it comes out anyway. “Please?”

Mr. Beck’s eyes half close, darkening. “Oh honey,” he says, “you don’t have to ask twice,” and then he’s kissing Peter again, harder, open mouthed, his fingers tighter on Peter’s chin and holding him in place. It’s a lot more than before, and a little startling because he doesn’t really know what to do in response, but it’s so _hot._

He kisses back, trying to match it, pushing into Mr. Beck’s kisses and pressing his own tongue forward, and wow, it feels really good this way too; he moans, his hands coming up and latching around Mr. Beck’s neck, fingers curling in his hair. He has really nice hair, thick and just long enough to really grab and super soft, and Peter likes the feel of it, wants to bury his hands in it and not let go. 

Mr. Beck’s breath huffs out harder against Peter’s skin, like he’s laughing a little, and he pulls Peter closer, putting his arm around Peter’s back, his hand sliding down and spreading over his ass, holding him in place. It shouldn’t feel as hot as it does, not through the suit, but it’s like his hand is a brand, like Peter can feel every single inch of it intensely, distracting him. 

He’s so hard, already, and it’s really uncomfortable in the suit. He whines faintly as Mr. Beck tugs him even closer, his thigh slipping between Peter’s legs, and Peter can’t help the way his hips jerk, pressing into it, wanting that pressure so much. Oh god, he hopes that’s ok, that it isn’t going too far, like he’s asking for more than kisses when he’s perfectly happy to do this for hours. 

He thrusts forward again, losing focus on the kissing for just a moment, and Mr. Beck notices; of course he does. Or at least, Peter thinks that’s why he stops kissing Peter’s mouth and starts kissing his neck, from the corner of his jaw down to his collarbone, pulling the edge of the suit aside enough to bite at it, gently, just the idea of teeth more than the feel. “Oh my god,” Peter breathes out, with a really embarrassing little whimper and another jerk of his hips. 

Mr. Beck laughs again, which would make Peter pretty nervous that he’s doing something wrong, but— but he trusts Mr. Beck, and Mr. Beck doesn't judge him, so it’s not like he’s being laughed at, not really. 

Peter really hopes he’s not grabbing Mr. Beck’s hair too tight; he tries to remember to ease off, but it’s super hard when Mr. Beck is kissing his neck again, more, his mouth almost painfully hot and his beard rasping against Peter’s skin. His hand has slid down, curled more over the side of Peter’s throat, thumb pressing up into the underside of his chin, and Peter just rolls with it, letting his head drop back into Mr. Beck’s hand, exposed to his mouth and it feels so good. 

He gives in to it too when Mr. Beck kisses him on the mouth again, and again, and maybe it’s not the right way to kiss, but Peter’s not trying to match him this time. He just yields, and feels, feels so much; how his lips feel hot and tight, like they’re swollen almost; how his skin feels over sensitive, every little breath stirring hair and making him want to shiver; how Mr. Beck’s mouth is scorching and soft and slick; how Mr. Beck’s hand has moved, is spread over the front of his throat, warm, thumb and fingers curled around Peter’s neck. 

Peter’s smaller than Mr. Beck, and he knows that, but he’s not tiny, and he’s never really felt that small until right now, with the full width of his throat covered by Mr. Beck’s hand, how it feels like Mr. Beck could almost circle his whole neck if he tried; he couldn’t, but it _feels_ like it. And— and he wants that, he thinks, he wants the weight of that, how it feels like it’s holding him in place, firm and solid, stealing his breath until he feels almost dizzy, which doesn’t even make sense because it’s not like Mr. Beck is putting any pressure on him.

But it feels like it, and he wants it to feel like more. 

He swallows, and it makes Mr. Beck’s hand feel heavier, tighter, how his throat fights against his hand a little. Yes, he thinks, yes, and pushes up into that touch. 

He doesn’t know if it’s all him, or if Mr. Beck notices and responds, or maybe both, but it feels like Mr. Beck’s hand tightens, like his fingers are digging in, the flat of his palm pressing down, Peter’s breath caught and his pulse pounding in his ears. 

The next kiss never comes, and after a moment, Peter realizes he doesn’t even feel Mr. Beck’s breath either, just the weight of his hand. Slowly, Peter opens his eyes, and Mr. Beck is just— staring at him, his lips parted, like Peter’s doing something more interesting than standing here like an idiot, feeling like he can’t focus on anything, like he wants to just melt. 

Mr. Beck’s hand tightens, really actually tightens, not Peter just imagining it—he’s not sure he was imagining it earlier either—and then lets go entirely. Peter almost whimpers, but manages to choke it back, because— maybe that was a bad thing, maybe Mr. Beck was looking at him like that because Peter was being weird. 

“I should have guessed you’d like that sort of thing,” Mr. Beck says, tapping a finger under Peter’s chin, and Peter wants to know what sort of thing he means, if it’s a good thing, a thing Mr. Beck likes. 

He only gets as far as opening his mouth before Mr. Beck is kissing him again, his hand closing around Peter’s throat in the same second. This time, Mr. Beck’s hand tightens, slowly, but Peter can feel it, can tell it’s not just in his head. It tightens, until he can’t swallow at all, Mr. Beck kissing him until Peter is gasping for breath, not managing to kiss back at all. 

At least Mr. Beck doesn’t seem to mind.

He could make it stop, Peter thinks, distantly. Mr. Beck isn’t even holding him in place at all; Peter could just step back and be able to breathe completely like normal in a heartbeat. Even if Mr. Beck was holding him, it wouldn’t matter, it’s not like he could actually make Peter stay. And like, it’s— it’s a lot, it’s really— really overwhelming, the way Mr. Beck’s hands are on him, Mr. Beck’s mouth is on him, how he can’t quite breathe and can’t quite hear clearly and can’t quite think at all; he should want it to stop, right? 

But he just whines when Mr. Beck leans back, letting his hand slide down Peter’s chest, catching for a moment on the medallion before it settles over his stomach. 

“So,” Mr. Beck says, and his voice is deeper than usual, sort of amused, even if Peter isn’t sure why. “You said you couldn’t stop thinking, right?”

It takes a moment for Peter to realize that Mr. Beck is waiting for an answer. He nods, hoping that’s enough of one; it’s crazy how out of it he feels when all they’ve done is kiss. Is this how it normally is? 

“Was there something in particular you couldn’t stop thinking about?” Mr. Beck asks. “Something you really wanted?” His hand drops, flattening over the bulge at Peter’s crotch, and even though the suit is super reinforced there, Peter would swear he can still feel every inch of Mr. Beck’s hand. “There’s obviously something on your mind,” Mr. Beck adds, smirking, and wow, Peter’s never going to be able to see him do that again without thinking of this. 

Everything, Peter wants to tell him, something, please. “I don’t know,” he says instead. “I don’t know like, anything, just— I’ll take anything you want to give me. Anything at all, I don’t care, I just— I want, I want to feel it and I want you to feel good.”

Mr. Beck just watches him for a minute, pressing his hand against Peter’s dick and twisting it, and Peter knows, he _knows_ it’s all in his head but it still makes him shudder. “What do you think about a blowjob?” he says, eventually, and Peter is so hung up on the fact that those words came out of Mr. Beck’s mouth at all that he almost doesn’t answer.

And then, honestly, he doesn't really know what to answer. “Right now?” he says, and that dazed, nice feeling from a moment ago is shredding, his head spinning back up all these uncertain, panicky thoughts.

“Mmm,” Mr. Beck says. “Maybe. Up to you, Peter.”

It is, Peter thinks, because Mr. Beck— he’s really, really certain that Mr. Beck wouldn’t make him do anything, or even act like, disappointed if Peter didn’t want to. But he’d probably like it a lot better if Peter _did,_ and Peter— well, he does want to, he’s just so freaking nervous; he doesn’t want to fuck this up or get laughed at for doing it wrong— no, Mr. Beck wouldn’t laugh at him. He’s safe. 

This is just, so much more than he was thinking of when he asked if they could talk about something. Is he really going to do this? Can he do this? 

Mr. Beck is watching him, quietly, his face almost expressionless. God, he’s so hot, and he wants Peter after all, and Peter trusts him, and— yeah, shit, he is going to do this. 

“Ok,” Peter says, taking a step back, Mr. Beck’s hands falling away. “Yeah, ok,” and he kneels between Beck’s legs. Wow, that is just. Right there, Peter thinks, swallowing hard, staring at the bulge in Beck’s pants. Really tight pants, which isn’t helping anything. 

Mr. Beck jerks, his hands twitching forward before they stop, and he sucks in a breath, sharp enough that Peter looks up at him; he looks so tall like this. Beck’s mouth is open, red and a little wet and Peter can’t help thinking how that’s because of him, that’s because Mr. Beck was kissing _him._

“God,” Mr. Beck says, hoarsely, his hand brushing through Peter’s hair, tracing down his cheek. “That’s a hell of a sight. You look real fucking pretty like this, honey,” and holy shit, that’s really— his face has to be bright red, he can feel how hot he’s gone. He kind of wants to curl up and hide, and he kind of wants to preen, almost— he’s never been called _pretty_ before, and he never would have thought that was something he wanted, but the way Mr. Beck said it is everything.

Mr. Beck shakes his head shortly, like he’s gotten distracted by something. “Actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Peter’s cheek, “I’d been thinking you’d be the one getting the blowjob here.”

Oh, Peter thinks, and then _oh._ Fuck, of course that’s what Mr. Beck had meant; why had he been dumb enough to think it was the other way around, that Mr. Beck would actually want a blowjob from him? It’s not like he’s going to be any good at it, not like he’s ever done it before and Mr. Beck shouldn’t have to put up with whatever fumbling around he’d do. He’s probably just being nice to Peter anyway, and doesn’t want to actually have Peter do anything to him. God, he’s so stupid. 

If his face was red before, it has to be impossibly so now, he thinks, because it feels like it’s on fire. He ducks his head and leans back on his heels; how is going to make this less awful? Can he?

“Whoa,” Mr. Beck says, curling his hand around the back of Peter’s neck and pulling him back in. “Hey, I’m hardly objecting here!” Peter darts a glance back up, and— well, Mr. Beck doesn’t look upset, or unhappy. Looks pretty much the same as before, like there’s something pleasing about Peter being like this. “I mean,” Mr. Beck adds, “you can’t really expect me to say no when you’re kneeling there, looking like that. Christ. Go for it, kid.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and he feels a little better. Not as good as he had, but better. “Um. I haven’t— you know I haven’t done this before?” He takes Mr. Beck’s huff as a yes, cause it probably is really, really, _really_ obvious, ugh. “I just. Like. You’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong, right? I don’t want to screw it up.”

“It’s not rocket science, Peter,” Mr. Beck says, and then laughs, really laughs. “You’d probably be happier if it was, wouldn’t you?” 

“Well I know how to do that,” Peter mutters. 

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” and Peter doesn’t want to do fine, he wants this to be good. “Don’t worry so much. I promise, I’m not shy about saying what I like.” 

He tilts Peter’s head up and rubs his thumb over Peter’s bottom lip; there’s a callous above his knuckle that’s rough against Peter’s chin. Mr. Beck presses down on Peter’s lip a little harder, until Peter opens his mouth, and then he slides it in. Just the tip, resting on his bottom teeth, and Peter brushes his tongue against it, feeling the edge of his thumbnail. 

Mr. Beck pushes it in more, watching him, as Peter closes his lips around it. Presses his tongue against it, around it, and— and it’s kind of dumb, isn’t it? Like, it’s just his thumb, there’s nothing actually sexy about that, right? It’s going to look stupid if he acts like it’s something real, if he sucks on it like it’s— a dick, or something. 

It’s probably too late to worry about looking stupid. 

Mr. Beck twists his thumb in Peter’s mouth, and Peter goes ahead and goes for it, sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing, rubbing his tongue against it. Mr. Beck lets out a long, shuddering breath, and wow, yeah, he doesn’t look like he thinks Peter looks stupid at all. 

Maybe he can do this. 

Mr. Beck pulls his thumb out, and Peter feels his momentary confidence shriveling. No, he starts to think, his mouth still hanging open a little, and then it’s full again, Mr. Beck slipping his fingers into Peter’s mouth instead. Oh, Peter thinks, stilling, feeling how they’re pressing against his tongue, hooked into his mouth, ok. 

It’s different than just Mr. Beck’s thumb, not just more but— weirdly invasive, like it isn’t up to him to do something. Like his mouth is just there for Mr. Beck to play with, how he’s shifting his fingers in Peter’s mouth, stroking over his tongue, the insides of his cheeks, twisting his fingers to press up against the roof of Peter’s mouth. Spreading them, and Peter’s lips too; he pulls them back out a little and a line of drool runs down Peter’s chin. 

Oh, that’s gross, Peter thinks, and tries to swallow around Mr. Beck’s fingers, tries to make some of the spit that’s flooded his mouth disappear. It’s not really that successful, with the way Mr. Beck has his tongue pressed down and his lips parted, and it makes this wet, throaty sound that’s really embarrassing. 

Or maybe not really, because Mr. Beck chuckles, low and dark, and shoves his fingers further into Peter’s mouth, almost too far, Peter sucking in a breath and hoping he doesn’t gag. “Good,” Mr. Beck murmurs, and Peter closes his eyes. 

Opens them, wide, staring up at Mr. Beck, as there’s a third finger pressing against his lips, sliding into his mouth, and that’s a _lot_ more. Mr. Beck spreads them as he pushes them in, until Peter can’t close his lips around them entirely; keeps them like that, and Peter’s horrified by the way his mouth is getting wetter and wetter, how he can’t seem to swallow any of it, how he can feel it threatening to spill out. 

Mr. Beck pulls his fingers back a little, and that’s what does it, what breaks the tension and sends spit dripping down his chin. It’s wet and goes cold so quickly and he feels like his skin is crawling as it slides along the underside of his chin, further down his neck as Mr. Beck pushes his fingers back in, forcing more out of his mouth. 

He almost squinches his eyes shut; he feels like he should hide, like he should be embarrassed— and he is, but… maybe not as much as he should be? Maybe, because he doesn’t look away from Mr. Beck’s gaze at all. He reaches up, his tongue working against Mr. Beck’s fingers, spit dripping from his chin now, and puts his hands on Mr. Beck’s thighs, sliding them up until he hits the waist of his pants. For a moment, he can’t figure out what to do— there doesn’t seem to be a zipper, or a fly at all, how does this even work? 

Mr. Beck catches his hesitation before Peter can feel too stupid, reaching down and putting his hand over Peter’s. He pulls it up a little more, and oh, there is a seam there; he slips his fingers under it and tugs, carefully, sliding Mr. Beck’s pants down. 

And then it’s— it’s just, right there. Holy shit, right there, and like, Peter’s seen other dicks before, but not— not uh, up close and personal like this. Definitely not as big or hard or dark as this either, wow. Or hot— not that kind of hot, though it totally is, but _hot,_ enough that he can feel the heat radiating from it, he’s so close. 

There’s this sweaty, musky smell that’s sort of familiar and sort of not, and it’s probably stronger because they’ve both just come from a mission and like, man, it would have been smarter to stop and shower first, or just go home even, but— but it’s not that gross, really. Or even gross at all? It’s just strong. 

It’s… a lot. A good a lot? But really— he’s so, so nervous, but at the same time, he can’t seem to look away, can’t seem to think of anything else, can’t seem to stop thinking about what it will feel like and taste like and look like when Mr. Beck comes.

Mr. Beck pulls his fingers out of Peter’s mouth, and that’s like, probably a hint to get on with it, to get Mr. Beck’s dick in his mouth instead, and Peter just. Fuck. He can’t— 

Maybe it’s way too late for it, but his head feels like it’s going ten different directions at once, and this seems to be the only thing that is really sticking, his mind latching onto it. “Should— should we go somewhere else?” he asks, not looking away from Mr. Beck’s dick. “I mean, uh, what if someone comes in?”

“Don’t worry so much,” Mr. Beck says. “Like I told you, honey, the door is locked, and we’re still cloaked anyway.” He trails his fingers up the side of Peter’s face, and they’re still wet. “We should probably be a little quiet though,” he adds, “just in case. You’re right that we don’t want someone getting curious.”

God, no, Peter thinks, but there’s also this little— this shivery, swooping feeling in the bottom of his stomach, like the moment he’s not entirely sure his web has caught, will keep him swinging and not falling. Not really fear, not entirely; exhilaration, almost.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Mr. Beck asks. “Or just… stop? We don’t have to do anything right now, after all. You don’t have to be scared of backing out, Peter.”

He’s not backing out, he’s just— he just needs a second. “No,” Peter says, “ugh, no, I really don’t want to stop. And like, my senses will probably warn me before anyone gets near, right? So it’s fine, it’s ok. And I mean. I. Uh,” he stutters off, and he can’t quite bring himself to say that maybe he doesn’t care that much after all.

He’s just stalling, isn’t he. Shit. He wants this. He does.

Stop thinking so much, he tells himself, just do it. Just move. And he does, bringing his hand up and touching the head of Mr. Beck’s dick, lightly, just barely smearing the drops of precome that are welling up. Drags his fingers down, along the full underside of it, until they’re resting over Mr. Beck’s balls. He cups them, briefly, before he wraps his hand around the base, pulling it away from Mr. Beck’s stomach a bit more so he can actually get his mouth on it, and it’s really not that different than his own. Like, it’s _different,_ but the feel of it isn’t that strange, just as firm and sort of matte soft and overly warm as his own. 

He licks his lips; they’re still spit slick, but he can’t help it. Looks up at Mr. Beck, just a quick glance, and man, the way Mr. Beck is looking at him, staring at him, is really intense. Kind of intimidating.

He takes a deep breath, and presses his tongue against the tip of Mr. Beck’s dick. 

It’s not really that different either, he thinks, because yeah, sure, he’s totally tasted his own like, come and stuff. It’s not that weird; he’s pretty sure everyone’s done it. Probably. But at least it means this isn’t something super shocking and new, even if everything else about this is. Like the way it feels when he leans in a little more and closes his lips around the head, that whole bit of it in his mouth. 

That’s different. That’s really freaking different, not even like Mr. Beck’s fingers had been. It’s bigger and hotter and feels completely different, tastes completely different, and he just stays like that for a minute, swirling his tongue around it, over the indent of the tip, where the slit is, saltier than the rest; under the ridge of the head, catching his tongue behind it and pressing in, and Mr. Beck’s head is a lot bigger than his, a lot more distinct from the shaft then he was expecting. 

He traces over the line where his lips are closed around Mr. Beck’s dick, and then opens his mouth a little, enough that he can slide his tongue out, trapped between Mr. Beck’s dick and his bottom lip. He can feel a vein along the underside, standing out and giving a little when he presses at it. Should he be moving his mouth more, he wonders, or like, bobbing his head on it? Maybe?

He tries that, pushing forward and taking a little more of Mr. Beck’s dick into his mouth, and even that little bit feels like a whole lot more. It’s crazy how full his mouth feels already, like nothing he’s ever felt; he lets it slip back out of his mouth, until the head is pulling at his lips, and tries to take in a little more this time. 

It’s only a few more of those before he feels like maybe he’s figuring this out ok. Mr. Beck’s dick is bumping up against the roof of his mouth, rubbing at his lips, and they feel so swollen and raw already that he can’t imagine what he’ll feel like after. That ridge along the length of Mr. Beck’s dick feels totally different against his tongue that it did in his hand; he rubs his tongue over it the next time he bobs his head down, and Mr. Beck makes a sound, almost a groan. 

“God,” Mr. Beck says as Peter glances up, “you’re doing so well. Are you sure you haven’t sucked cock before?”

Peter can feel his face heat— more than just the temperature, but like a rush, dizzying, like all the blood is being flooded into his cheeks, down his neck. Well not _all,_ cause his dick is still so hard it almost hurts, but the rest of it. It feels so good that Mr. Beck thinks he’s doing ok, this tight feeling in his chest easing a bit. He can totally do this. 

He can do more, he thinks, and pushes himself further each time he goes down, taking a little more. He doesn’t know how much more he _can_ take, but he wants to find out. It’s messier, like this; Mr. Beck’s dick is big enough—thick enough—that it’s a little hard to keep his lips completely closed around it, and there’s spit slipping out at the corners of his mouth. He gets out of breath at the wrong time, trying to gasp in with Mr. Beck’s dick still in his mouth when he can’t seem to get enough through his nose, and it’s a mistake, spit dripping out of his mouth all over Mr. Beck’s dick, way too much. 

Peter pulls off, as fast as he can. “Shit,” he mutters, “sorry,” and wipes his hand over it, trying to get some off; it’s so wet that’s got to feel kinda gross. 

Mr. Beck’s hips jerk up into his hand, and he laughs, a little breathlessly. “Not something you need to be sorry for,” he says. Which— ok, Peter thinks, maybe he’s just trying to be nice, but it did sound a little like… he liked it. 

Well, good, because Peter’s failing a little bit at not being messy. 

He sinks back onto Mr. Beck’s dick, and it feels nice now, like something he’s already gotten used to, something he likes doing. And it does, actually; he didn’t think he’d dislike it, but maybe it'd be sort of neutral? Okish? It’s totally more than that, maybe more than like even. 

Mr. Beck’s just been holding onto the table, still leaning against it a bit, but Peter catches his hands moving out of the corner of his eyes, lifting up. They settle on his head, Mr. Beck’s fingers sliding through his hair, and that’s really nice, actually. They feel so big, spread across his whole head, and the way Mr. Beck is rubbing his fingers on Peter's scalp makes him want to just melt.

When he pulls back this time, he can’t go quite as far, his head bumping back against Mr. Beck’s hands, and they don’t move. He glances up, because he doesn’t really know what Mr. Beck wants here. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Mr. Beck breathes out. “The mouth on you, Jesus Christ, Pete,” and his hands tighten in Peter’s hair. Oh _wow,_ Peter thinks, closing his eyes, that’s so hot, that feels so good. His mouth opens a little more, lips going soft around Mr. Beck’s dick, and he makes this quiet, whining noise that he didn’t even know he could make.

Mr. Beck’s hands are a little tighter, and tighter, and then Peter realizes they’re actually pushing at him, pulling him down onto Mr. Beck’s dick. Yeah, ok, he thinks, and stops resisting it, relaxing as much as he can. 

It’s a little— almost frightening, maybe, or maybe just nerve wracking, the way Mr. Beck starts jerking Peter’s head up and down on his dick. It’s not that it’s hard or that it hurts, but it just feels like there’s nothing Peter can do about it except keep his mouth open and wet; he can’t control it at all, just take it. 

But it’s a little—ok, maybe a lot—hot too, _because_ he can’t do anything about it. It feels good to just let Mr. Beck do what he wants with Peter, sort of use him, make him do whatever it is Mr. Beck wants. 

He’d wondered how much more he could take, could hold in his mouth, and it looks like he might find out, because Mr. Beck is pushing his head deeper each time, further, until suddenly Peter gags, chokes, jerking back and gasping. Well, shit; that’s as much as he can handle, he guesses. 

Mr. Beck had let him pull off all the way, patient, but his hands are still in Peter’s hair, and he’s tugging him back down after a minute. Pulling him down, and Peter’s waiting for him to not go as far this time, now that Mr. Beck knows what Peter can take, but he does. Pushes him down just as far, the head of his dick hitting Peter in the same spot, and Peter huffs out a breath, startled, almost gagging again. 

“It’s ok, kid,” Mr. Beck says, “you got this, you can take it.” Peter really isn’t sure but— but he trusts Mr. Beck, and he knows a hell of a lot more about this than Peter does. 

He pulls Peter down a little more even, and Peter whimpers, breathing faster and trying hard not to gag, the feel of Mr. Beck’s dick right there almost like a tickle, irritating. It seems even larger, and he sucks in a breath when Mr. Beck pulls his head back again. He can’t really tell anymore if Mr. Beck’s dick is going in further or not, but he’s not having to fight gagging quite as hard. 

Until he is, with no real warning, Mr. Beck yanking his head forward, his dick in way deeper than before, and Peter doesn’t even have a chance to try not to gag. He tries to make some sort of noise, but it’s completely drowned out by the wet sounds coming out of his throat as he chokes on Mr. Beck’s dick, Mr. Beck not letting up at all, just holding him there while Peter squirms and tries to stay in place, because it’s obvious this is what Mr. Beck wants.

He can’t, though, finally breaking free without even meaning to, jerking back off Mr. Beck’s dick and gasping, drool dripping out of his mouth. He stares up at Mr. Beck, panting, startled and uncertain and hoping he didn’t fuck up, that he isn’t going to be a disappointment because he can’t do that. 

“Too much?” Mr. Beck asks, and it’s— there’s some sort of edge to his voice that wasn’t there before, that Peter isn’t quite sure of. “I mean,” Mr. Beck continues, “it looked like you could take it, but if you can’t, it’s ok.”

“No,” Peter says, hurriedly, “no, I can! I just didn’t know what to expect, I guess? I mean, it’s just. Uh.” Shit, he really wants to do this right. “Can you maybe show me what you want?”

Mr. Beck smirks at him. “You bet I can,” he says, and that edge is still there.

He tangles one hand a little tighter in Peter’s hair, pulling the other away and wrapping it around the base of his dick. Tugs Peter’s head a little, tilting it. “Stay right there,” he says. “Seriously, don’t move, just let me show you, ok?” 

Peter nods, pulling at Mr. Beck’s grip, and Mr. Beck shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry!” Peter says. “I’ll be still, I can do that.”

“Mhm,” Mr. Beck hums, and grips his dick, tapping it against Peter’s lips. Peter opens his mouth, but Mr. Beck doesn’t slide it in yet, just taps it against his lips again, a little wet smack. 

Peter leans forward, trying to catch it, and Mr. Beck laughs. “You’re really not getting the hold still thing, kid,” he says. Peter wrinkles his nose at him, but doesn’t say anything this time, and doesn’t do anything either when Mr. Beck’s dick hits his lips again, and again. 

Maybe it’s kind of a test, because after a minute of Peter making very sure he’s not moving, Mr. Beck sets the head of his dick to Peter’s lips and pushes in. It’s a little different this way, with Mr. Beck thrusting into his mouth instead of pulling Peter down on it, but it’s not super different, and it still makes Peter feel really… turned on, yeah, of course, but maybe a little nervous too.

Mr. Beck keeps that up, sliding in and out of his mouth, and actually, you know what? Peter thinks he’s got this. 

Thinks for a second, no more, and then Mr. Beck pulls his head back a little further and thrusts forward deeper, just like before, hitting that spot and making Peter choke. 

“Relax,” Mr. Beck says as Peter startles, jerks in his hands. “It’ll be easier if you relax; just let it happen, kid. You’ve got this.”

He’s _trying,_ but it’s just— Mr. Beck’s dick feels so big and thick and it’s pushing so hard against the back of Peter’s throat. He gags, and gags again, Mr. Beck pulling out enough that Peter can swallow before he pushes back in.

“I thought you wanted me to show you what I wanted,” Mr. Beck says.

He did— he _does,_ he can do this, he can. Peter closes his eyes, and tries not to think too hard about what his body is telling him, tries to just hold as still and unreactive as he can. There’s the press of Mr. Beck’s dick, this pressure and tension and he can feel how his throat is trying to move, but he’s not going to let it, he’s not, he won’t. 

Another second, another moment of resistance, and then it’s like something gives, Mr. Beck’s dick suddenly sliding further in, filling him up completely. It feels absolutely crazy, and when he starts to gasp in surprise, he can’t. Shit, he can’t breathe, he can’t seem to swallow, all he can do is try not to panic or move and just take it. He can. He’s going to.

Mr. Beck stays there, not moving at all, thank god, and it feels a little easier each second, even if Peter’s head is starting to hurt, blood rushing in his ears. He gasps for real when Mr. Beck finally pulls out, swallowing convulsively. “There you go,” Mr. Beck says, rubbing the head of his dick over Peter’s lips before he pushes it back in, “I told you you could do it.” 

It isn’t any easier, not really, when Mr. Beck does it again, Peter still reacting before he can stop himself, but it’s easier to make himself relax, thinking about that. About Mr. Beck telling him that, Mr. Beck’s confidence in him, and Peter really wants to prove him right. 

He can— he does, letting his head rest in Mr. Beck’s hands, curled in his hair and holding him still as Mr. Beck fucks into his mouth, over and over and over, not always so deep but more often than not. He still gags, but it’s not every time, and it’s not so hard, and he can’t get over how full his mouth feels, how much of Mr. Beck’s dick he’s taking in. All of it, he thinks, and he’s not sure if the twist in his stomach is panic or pride when Mr. Beck shoves his dick in that last little bit, Peter’s face flush against his crotch, nose buried in the hair there. All of it, oh my god. 

It’s even messier like this, and it’s super embarrassing how much he’s drooling all over Mr. Beck’s dick, all over himself as well, his face and neck and chest wet. And it’s noisy, it’s really, really noisy, all these wet, squelchy noises and the way Peter sounds when he gags, choking on Mr. Beck’s dick; even when he doesn’t, he’s still making these sort of… wet, thick whimpers, muffled and broken but totally obvious, and he can’t stop himself once he’s noticed.

“God, I could fuck your throat all day,” Mr. Beck says hoarsely. _“Fuck,”_ he groans, and slides a hand down Peter’s cheek, wiping it over his neck. “Look at what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

He knows, ugh, he knows, and he really doesn’t want to think about that. 

“You’re just made to be on your knees like this, aren’t you,” Mr. Beck adds.

That sounded— like Mr. Beck thinks it’s a good thing, like it’s supposed to be a compliment; Peter glances up, without moving his head, without doing anything to keep Mr. Beck from fucking his face just as he likes. The way Mr. Beck is looking at him, how he’s gone flushed, his hands almost gentle despite how hard he’s thrusting into Peter’s mouth— it was a compliment after all. Oh. 

He should be embarrassed by that, shouldn’t he? It sounds kind of— degrading, right? He totally shouldn’t be feeling warmer and proud, this little flip of something good in his chest. 

But he totally is. 

Mr. Beck’s hand slides back around his throat, like before, just not as tight. It’s still good though, still something that makes Peter feel like he’s held in place, pinned and protected. He puts his own hand up, closing his fingers around Mr. Beck’s forearm; he’s not trying to pull him off, or stop, he just wants to feel it, how Mr. Beck’s muscles shift when he tightens his hand, wants to feel it everywhere. 

He moans the next time Mr. Beck’s dick slides all the way in, because it feels different again with Mr. Beck’s hand up against his throat, pressing on it, feels like everything is even tighter. Mr. Beck jerks, even though he’s already in as far as he can go, and twists his arm out of Peter’s grip, pulling his hand away as he pulls his dick out. 

Peter has a second to wonder if he’s done something wrong before Mr. Beck grabs his hand and presses it against his throat, Mr. Beck’s flattened against the back and keeping it in place. He glances up, tightening his fingers on his own throat just like Mr. Beck had, and then Mr. Beck pushes back in.

Oh, fuck, he can _feel_ it, Peter thinks, shocked, and he knows his eyes have gone wide, Mr. Beck smirking at him, almost laughing. But it doesn’t matter, because he can actually feel Mr. Beck’s dick in him, through his skin and throat and everything, can feel how it makes everything bulge out more, hard, can feel the head of it as Mr. Beck fucks in and and out, and that’s completely insane and incredibly hot. He can feel it when he makes a noise too, any noise, can feel it when he moans and tries to swallow and gags.

Mr. Beck pulls back, pulls out of Peter’s mouth entirely, and for a second Peter doesn’t understand what’s even happening. “Wait,” he says, only it’s more of a croak, his throat feeling raw like he’s sick. “Did I—” and it doesn’t really hurt, at least, but his voice is all raspy and weird, distracting. “Did I do something wrong?” he tries, and it’s a little more understandable. 

“Fuck, no,” Mr. Beck says, jerking his hand in Peter’s hair a little, Peter’s head lolling into it. “You’re doing amazing. I never would have guessed you’d be such a gorgeous little slut,” and it hit Peter like a slap in the face, sharp and sudden and so shocking, being called that. It’s mortifying, and degrading, and Mr. Beck says it’s like it’s something Peter should be proud of. 

“I was just thinking there might be a little something more you’d want,” Mr. Beck continues, and Peter just stares at him, blankly, not able to think beyond those words, _gorgeous little slut,_ bouncing round and round in his head. 

“Whatever you want, I want,” he says, finally, when Mr. Beck doesn’t add anything. It must be a good answer, though, because Mr. Beck just laughs and tugs at him, pulls until Peter gets the hint and stands up, awkwardly, his legs sore and not wanting to move right. 

Mr. Beck tilts Peter’s head back with the hand still in his hair and catches the edge of his sleeve, wiping it over Peter’s chin; Peter’s suddenly aware all over again of how messy he must look, how gross, all that spit and precome all over him. He blushes, however much had faded coming right back as he thinks that. 

“How’s this thing come off then?” Mr. Beck asks, sliding his fingers under the edge of Peter’s suit, against his neck. 

“Oh, um, here,” and Peter presses his hand against the medallion, the suit loosening and drooping down. His mind catches up a minute later, as Mr. Beck is peeling the suit down Peter’s arms; oh my god, Mr. Beck wants the suit off, wants him naked, wants— is he— are they really going to do that? Is that— does he want to? Oh god, he doesn’t even know, he can’t think, he can’t decide, it’s just a lot all at once and Mr. Beck is pushing his suit down further, dragging it over his stomach and— 

I don’t care, he decides, a little frantically. I do want this, and I trust him. He’s safe, he won’t let me get hurt, and I like him, I _want_ this. 

Then his suit is around his hips, Mr. Beck’s hand on his waist, so warm against his skin. Is lower, even, Mr. Beck carefully lifting it up over his dick, letting the suit catch on his thighs. Peter’s breathing too fast and he can’t seem to stop, because all that before, that was one thing, and this is something else altogether, this is— Mr. Beck is looking at him, at _all_ of him, and that didn’t matter so much when he was on his knees and covered up and doing something he could tell Mr. Beck liked. 

And he knows— ok, he’s been told that he’s like, that his body has gotten hot at least, but he’s still not really used to it, and he doesn’t really think of himself like that at all, even now. It’s not like most people around him know how much his body has changed, so they don’t treat him differently, and he’s just— he’s just more used to not really wanting people to see him with even his shirt off, much less naked, even if it seems weird now. 

But he’s— he’s really naked now, and Mr. Beck’s not, and it’s more than a little terrifying. 

“I—” he starts, and then whimpers instead, all those thoughts flying out of his head when Mr. Beck grabs his dick. 

“Look what you’ve been hiding,” Mr. Beck says, humor in his voice, and strokes up, all the way over the tip. Peter’s so wet, has been so hard for so long and he can’t help the way his hips buck forward when Mr. Beck’s hand slides back down, smoother and slicker and oh my god so good. “Very nice.”

Peter shudders, his hands coming up and grabbing at Mr. Beck’s outfit, scrabbling at the armor, trying to get a hold of anything; they settle, finally, just pressed into the armor, flexing against the points of it, and it’s almost familiar. He whines again, this awful little needy noise, and Mr. Beck laughs. 

“Been thinking about this, have you?” Mr. Beck says, low. “Getting off imagining this sort of thing, my hands on you, my cock in you, in your pretty little mouth and up your ass, fucking you?” Peter moans, and he has, a little; he’s tried not to, because he’d been sure that would only make this obsession worse, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself completely. 

None of those fantasies had been anything like this. 

Mr. Beck is stroking him a little faster, a little tighter. “How fast do you come now, at your age?” he says, and Peter closes his eyes. “Fuck,” Mr. Beck adds, “I remember being what, seventeen? Sixteen, still?” and Peter nods. 

“Um,” Peter whispers, “I— actually. It’s. Not.”

“Not?”

“Not fast,” Peter says, so embarrassed he wants to sink into the floor. “Ever since the bite, it’s like. It’s really hard to come at all. I just. It’s too easy to get distracted by stuff I can hear or smell and then it’s like, super hard to ignore things once I’ve noticed them. I get stuck focusing on the wrong things and can’t quite get there, it just goes on forever. Or—” and ugh, it’s even worse, it makes him sound so— stupid, delicate. “Or it’s too much, like suddenly way too overwhelming and sensitive and painful and I just have to stop entirely.”

Mr. Beck’s hand has slowed, loosened, stroking softly up and down his dick, and Peter really wishes he hadn’t said anything. “It sucks,” he mutters.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Beck says, giving Peter’s dick a little squeeze before he lets go, putting his hands on Peter’s hips instead and pushing him back a step. He stands up next to Peter and pushes him to the side, turning, until Peter’s between him and the table, his back resting against Mr. Beck’s chest, armor poking him. 

Mr. Beck’s mouth is on his neck, scorching hot, and Peter can feel his beard, his teeth against Peter’s skin for a moment before he pulls away. “Sounds like it could be fun in the right hands,” Mr. Beck says, right up against his ear. Peter shivers. 

“Are you the right hands then?” he says, his voice a lot breathier than he meant it to be. 

“Maybe I could be,” Mr Beck murmurs. “Put your hands on the table, Peter.” 

He does, even if he’s not really sure just how Mr. Beck wants them on it, but it turns out alright because Mr. Beck shows him. Presses his hands over Peter’s and moves them up a bit, his hands sliding up Peter’s shoulders and pushing at them until Peter gets the hint and leans forward, his weight on his hands. 

Mr. Beck’s hands are on his waist a moment later, pulling him until Peter takes a step back, and then another, leaning forward more on his arms; Mr. Beck presses at the small of his back, one hand settling on his hip, and moves him. 

Peter feels so— exposed. The way Mr. Beck’s put him, spread like this, his ass titled up and on display, feels more naked than naked somehow. He can’t see Mr. Beck like this, but he can practically feel the way Mr. Beck is looking at him. He takes a chance and glances back over his shoulder, and yeah, Mr. Beck really is staring at him, at his ass, really. Peter tucks his head back down, into his shoulder a little, feeling suddenly shy. It’s a little too late for that though, isn’t it. 

Mr. Beck leans forward, his hands grabbing at Peter, cupping his ass and squeezing it as he kisses the back of Peter’s neck. Bites it, a little, sharp and hard and Peter twitches at the feeling. And again, when Mr. Beck bites his shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh of Peter’s ass, spreading him open. 

There’s a light touch, maybe just a brush of a finger, right over his hole, so light he wonders if he just imagined it. Knows he didn’t, a second later, when Mr. Beck drags his thumb over it, pulling at it a bit. “Fuck,” Peter gasps, “oh my god,” and he doesn’t mean to push back against Mr. Beck’s hand, to spread his legs a little more, but he _does._

“Is that a yes, then?” Mr. Beck whispers, his beard scratching Peter’s neck, and does Peter really have to answer that? Isn’t it obvious?

Apparently he does, because Mr. Beck doesn’t do anything more, like he’s waiting, just rubbing his thumb over Peter’s hole and kissing his shoulder. “Yes?” Peter says. “I think so?” and he feels like he sounds real stupid. “I mean, uh, please?”

Mr. Beck doesn’t say anything to that, but his hand is in Peter's hair again, tugging his head back, and his fingers are against Peter’s mouth, inside. Peter doesn’t get it at first, just letting Mr. Beck handle him like that; “Nice and wet, Peter,” Mr. Beck says, spreading his fingers, and then Peter understands. Feels his face go even redder, if that’s possible— tighter and hotter, for sure. 

When Mr. Beck pulls his fingers out, they’re shiny with spit, slick and super gross and that’s— that’s going inside him, Peter thinks, with a flutter of panic, that’s going to— that can’t be enough, can it? 

It’s enough for a finger, it seems like, because the way Mr. Beck pushes one into him, slowly, isn’t that bad. Doesn’t really hurt, not like… actual hurt, just feels weird. So weird, and thick, filling; he can’t imagine what Mr. Beck's dick is going to feel like if one finger feels like this much. Mr. Beck presses it in more, and Peter can feel himself clenching around it, trying to relax and twitching. He sucks in a breath, loud enough for Mr. Beck to hear, when Mr. Beck twists his finger inside him, his other fingers pressing against Peter’s skin. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Mr. Beck says. “Could it be more obvious no one’s ever had you?” with a little laugh, and Peter swallows. Is that really a thing, he wonders, that you can just… tell? Cause he told Mr. Beck that, so maybe it’s just dirty talk, not something he’d know by looking, right? 

“Is that— ok?” he whispers, because like, aren’t some people really against fucking virgins, don’t want to be their first time? But Mr. Beck knew, so he doesn't mind, does he?

Mr. Beck laughs again, and Peter tells himself to calm down; it’s not like Mr. Beck is making fun of him. Mr. Beck’s too nice to do that. “Yeah, honey,” Mr. Beck says. “It’s gonna feel so good when I’m in you, don’t you worry about it.”

Peter’s breath rushes out of him, and he gets that hot rush of feeling good again. He doesn't know if that really counts as praise, but it sure feels like it.

It’s a little achy when Mr. Beck starts fucking him with that finger, faster, turning it around as he pushes it in and out, but not bad, really. Not great either, just sort of… a thing, that’s happening. That’s fine, it’ll get better. He thinks so, at least. 

Mr. Beck stops the next time he pulls his finger out, almost all the way, and hooks the tip of it down, pulling Peter’s hole open, and that feels really weird and embarrassing; Mr. Beck stays like that, and he doesn’t really want him to look at that, stare at it. Peter turns his head, craning to look over his shoulder, just as Mr. Beck spits right on his hole.

Peter feels it hit his skin, warm and wet, and squeaks, freaking squeaks so stupidly, but he feels so shocked, so startled by even the thought of Mr. Beck spitting on him, using that as more lube. He ducks his head, shuddering, and then the same stupid sound comes out of him mouth when Mr. Beck shoves a second finger into him. 

It’s so much more, feels like a lot more than twice as much, stretching him and this time it feels like more of a burn than an ache, feels tight and a little scary. He can feel every single bump, every knuckle of Mr. Beck's fingers as they push into him, barely slick at all, dragging at his skin. Can feel it just as much when they pull out, and it’s a lot, it’s a whole lot but he still wants it. He still wants this, he thinks, fiercely, and tries to muffle the next shocked noise that he makes.

Mr. Beck fucks him with two for longer, not quite as fast but more forceful, until Peter stops really feeling a burn, stops feeling the texture of them, just this dull ache as they slide in and out. It’s starting to feel like something he could get used to, and maybe he has been expecting too much, building it up to too much of a thing in his head, because it’s ok but it’s not like… amazing or anything. 

Mr. Beck sort of wiggles his fingers inside Peter, which is _super_ weird feeling, and then pauses, shifting them more, until— oh, shit, Peter thinks, can Mr. Beck read his freaking mind? Because that, now that feels amazing, his whole body jerking forward as he moans. Mr. Beck huffs behind him, and presses down more, rubs his fingers over that spot and Peter whines, his hands clenching on the desk, feeling his dick throb. “Oh my god,” he mutters, and pushes back. Feels like maybe, maybe he is a being a little bit of a slut, the way he grinds on Mr. Beck’s fingers, the way he jerks and pants and follows them when they pull out, the way he’s making these broken little whines, because this part, this part feels so good.

“There you go,” Mr. Beck says, pressing down hard enough on that spot it almost hurts, and Peter groans, loud. “Look at you already hungry for cock. You’re just desperate to get fucked, aren’t you.”

He— he is, well, he wants it, he does want to be fucked; he’s not quite as worried about how Mr. Beck will fit in him, just wants to feel it, but that doesn’t make him desperate, does it? He could do this for a while, if Mr. Beck wanted, he doesn’t have to have his dick inside right now. He wants it, wants it a lot, but he’s not— he thinks of that, of being hungry for it, desperate, begging for it, of Mr. Beck laughing at him for it, and it makes him want to crawl in a hole and hide.

It’s easier to not think about that when Mr. Beck starts fucking him harder with those fingers, spitting on him again and it’s wetter and faster and better, the slide and push pull of it, the way Mr. Beck spreads them and spreads him open. He doesn’t feel quite as overwhelmingly full now, like he could have more, could take it, and every couple of thrusts Mr. Beck’s fingers slip over that spot again, until Peter drops to his elbows, head almost touching the table as he arches his back even more, tilting his ass up more without Mr. Beck having to show him how, thrusting right back against Mr. Beck’s fingers as he gasps and whimpers and _wants._

“Think you’re ready?” Mr. Beck asks. “Think you can take this?” and it doesn’t sound like quite as much of a question as Mr. Beck rubs his dick up against Peter’s ass, Peter feeling the full, more than a little terrifying length of it on his skin.

“Yes,” Peter whispers, even though— even though he’s really, really not sure at all. But he wants this, he does, and he doesn’t want to say no; even if Mr. Beck didn’t get mad at him—and he wouldn’t, he totally wouldn’t, Mr. Beck isn’t like that—Peter just… doesn’t want to let him down. “Please,” he adds.

Mr. Beck spits in his hand again, and Peter doesn’t feel anything at first. Maybe he’s using it on his dick, Peter thinks, before Mr. Beck’s fingers are back in him, just the tips, hooking down and tugging at the edge of his hole. Spreading him open, and it feels really weird, cold. 

“Sure look ready,” Mr. Beck says. “Bet you’re still going to be nice and tight though.”

Peter whines, softly enough he can pretend Mr. Beck didn’t hear it, and then jolts as he feels Mr. Beck’s dick between his cheeks, feels the head of it rubbing over him. The tip of it settles against his hole easily, and for a second he thinks maybe it won’t be that bad. 

It doesn’t feel quite like Mr. Beck’s fingers at first, the give of the head a little softer, a lot wider. Thicker, bigger all around, and it only feels like more with every single second; holy shit, he was not ready, he was not ready at all, he had no idea just how much bigger it was going to be. So, so much bigger, in every possible way, and he gasps as Mr. Beck puts a little more force into it, the pressure turning into more, and more, and there’s no possible way that is going to fit in him. 

More of it does, though, with a sudden ache that’s somehow sharp and dull at the same time, and Peter whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s tense all over; Mr. Beck pushes in a little more and it aches, Peter clenching down hard against it.

“Ease up, Peter,” Mr. Beck says. “Come on, chill a little. You gotta relax, kid.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispers, the word stuttering out of him. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“Of course you are,” Mr. Beck says. “Breathe, ok? You’re going to be fine, just let it happen. You did before, remember?”

And that’s true, he hadn’t thought there was any possible way Mr. Beck’s dick could go in further in his throat, but it could, and it did, and he’d managed it. He just, he just has to relax and take it. 

He can’t, though, the next push sending him jolting forward, arms tensing, whimpering at the sting of it. Mr. Beck puts a hand on the back of Peter’s neck, covering it, his skin so hot, and pushes him down, slow but inescapable. Peter sinks down further, barely propped up on his elbows, trying to think about anything he feels other than the massive, aching intrusion in his ass; the table is cold and hard under him, uncomfortable against his chest and his cheekbone, his hair tickling his forehead where it’s fallen forward a bit. It feels like his arms are cramping, almost, and he lets himself rest entirely on his chest instead, arms going loose, sprawling as they slide up around his face. 

Mr. Beck’s other hand is on his ass, kind of on his hip, spread wide over that skin and tilting his hips up even more. There’s a moment of stillness, nothing at all, while Peter adjusts to this new position, and then Mr. Beck moves. Shoves forward, and sure, it’s slow, like Mr. Beck is trying not to hurt him, but it does. It hurts, actually hurts, sharp and stinging, the ache turning into a burn instead, all over and deep inside him. It’s too much, way, way too much, and there’s this feeling of tension, this thin, tight sensation like he’s right on the edge of something awful happening, like if he breathes wrong something will snap or rip or— or something, and it’s terrifying. 

He tries not to move, tries not to even breathe, but he can’t avoid either, every little bit Mr. Beck slides into him pushing his whole body forward as well, until he has to brace himself. He keeps waiting, waiting for that something awful to happen, to feel it, and it keeps not happening, the feeling just stretching on and on, not worse but just staying there, right on that edge, and it’s killing him. He can’t stop the whimpering, whining noises coming out of his mouth between the short, sharp breaths he’s gasping in, until he’s nearly panting, the mere effort of breathing moving his body. 

And then— and then he can feel something else, more external. Can feel Mr. Beck’s skin, can feel the hair of his crotch, pressed right up against Peter’s ass, and that means— that means it’s all of it, doesn’t it? Means he managed it, right?

“God, you feel even better than I thought you would,” Mr. Beck says, panting, his hands so tight on Peter’s skin, and that’s so good to hear but it doesn’t drown out the way it hurts, not like before. He thought he’d felt full before, but now he feels stuffed, overfull, like it’s more than he can take for very long; even if this is all of it, if there isn’t more to take, it’s too much. 

Mr. Beck starts to pull back out, then, and that tight, terrifying feeling of being stretched too far just gets worse; Peter cries out and jerks, and that only makes it worse. Oh my god, he thinks, he’s going to get hurt, Mr. Beck probably doesn’t mean to but something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? It’s not supposed to feel like this, it can’t be right. 

“Goddamn, kid,” Mr. Beck says, the head of his dick tugging at Peter’s hole, and then he can feel something else, Mr. Beck running a finger over the edge, where it’s stretched so tight around Mr. Beck’s dick. “Look at that, your pretty little hole. You’re going to be a hell of a fuck, honey.” 

So maybe this isn’t wrong, because Mr. Beck would notice if something was off, if Peter was actually ripped open and bleeding like he half feels he might be. Maybe this is just what it feels like? 

Mr. Beck pushes back in, slow, and Peter whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing his head down against the desk, trying to focus on the cold of that instead of the sharp, burning pain as Mr. Beck sinks into him. As Mr. Beck does it again, starts fucking him, still kinda slow with this little extra shove at the end of each thrust, and that tight, worrying feeling, that sharp pain, doesn’t go away, doesn’t get any better, but at least it doesn’t get worse. 

People enjoy this, Peter thinks, and bites his lip. Maybe there’s something wrong with him, because it sounds like Mr. Beck is definitely enjoying this. Maybe Peter’s doing it wrong, maybe he shouldn’t just be lying here all still and taking it. He shifts a little, changing the way his ass is tilted, trying to see if that makes it better; it does, actually, not a lot but it’s not quite as sharp. He tries again, a little different, and this time it’s not helpful; he twitches away from that feeling, in the other direction.

Mr. Beck chuckles. “Oh, is that how it is?” he says, and Peter doesn’t understand what he’s asking at all. “Already wanting more?” Mr. Beck adds, which is really, really not it. Peter hesitates, not really wanting to say that, and Mr. Beck slaps his ass. 

Peter jerks; it didn’t hurt that much, but it startled him, and was really loud. Mr. Beck does it again, and this time it stings, this time it makes his hole ache when he clenches around Mr. Beck's dick. Mr. Beck groans, obviously liking that, and slaps Peter one more time before he shoves back in, a lot harder than before. Peter yelps, feeling the full length of Mr. Beck drag across his hole, and it hurts worse, burns so much more. 

Mr. Beck does it again, and Peter can’t help the way his back rounds, fighting it, the way he clutches helplessly at the table, the way he whimpers out a desperate “Wait, wait, please!”

“What?” Mr. Beck says, sharp, pulling back fast and snapping his hips forward again, and Peter’s _wait_ is louder, almost a sob. Mr. Beck stills.

“What is it?” he says, his voice tight, that same sharper, almost disappointed tone from before. “I thought you had this?”

“I—” Peter whispers, “it’s just, it— it’s hurting, some. Not that much,” he adds, hastily, as Mr. Beck shifts, lets out a quiet sigh. “It’s not— not that bad! I just need a second? Or a little slower for a minute? Or— I—” He doesn’t want to ruin this. Mr. Beck was enjoying himself, and he thought Peter could take it, and now Peter is backing out, Peter is the one making it weird and bad. 

“It’s ok,” he says, and he’ll make it ok, he can make it ok,it’s not like he’s really going to get hurt. He’d heal anyway, right? He’s not going to say he wants to stop, because he _doesn’t._ “It just… aches.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Beck says, calmly, “it probably does, but it’ll get easier as we go on, kid. You just gotta relax and stop worrying so much. You trust me, right?”

“Of course I do,” Peter says.

“Then chill and trust that I’m not going to let you get hurt. I know what I’m doing, Pete.”

“I know,” Peter says. “I do, I trust you, I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry about that either,” Mr. Beck says. 

He is a little gentler on the next few strokes, not a lot but some, and Peter tries holding his breath, tries to focus on something else. Like the really embarrassing fact that he’s gone soft, and that’s ok to worry about, to hope that Mr. Beck doesn’t notice. 

Maybe that’s what helps, that he’s not thinking about t quite so much, because when Mr. Beck starts fucking him harder again, it’s not as painful. It’s still burning, but it’s not sharp anymore, it’s not too much pressure in a scary way. It’s just this dull, almost radiating ache that’s easier to bear. Easier enough that he actually relaxes a little for real, and that makes it easier too; the breaths huffing out of him which each thrust go softer, quieter, almost into moans like he’s enjoying himself, even if he’s not.

“There you go,” Mr. Beck says, “look at you taking it all so well.” His fingers dig in a little more as he pulls out. “I knew you could do this for me,” and he snaps his hips forward, fucking hard into Peter. 

Peter takes it, like he hasn’t before, not fighting against it at all but almost pushing back into the thrust, moaning, feeling his head drop forward a little more. It’s like Mr. Beck’s words hit some button inside him that turns off his brain, turns off any resistance left in him, and he just melts. He doesn’t know why, or what it is he’s doing that makes Mr. Beck say those things, but it feels so good and warm and calming when he knows Mr. Beck thinks he’s doing something right. 

Mr. Beck laughs, sort of snorts in a way that’s almost mocking, harsher. “I should have known you’d be a subby little bitch underneath it all.”

He’s— what, Peter thinks, freezing, as Mr. Beck pulls out again, and if he offers no resistance when he thrusts in again, it’s because Peter is completely frozen, chilled and unable to think or move or breathe. He’s not— that’s not— is he? His stomach drops, because he didn’t really think this was like, like that, he didn’t think he was like that or acting like that or anything. Is he, though? 

Is that what it means, that he’s letting Mr. Beck fuck him? He’s not a bitch, he’s just— he doesn’t want to be called that; even if it’s not a bad thing, not supposed to be such a bad thing, it still makes him want to curl up and hide, makes him feel so embarrassed he feels sick. 

“I—” he starts, uncertain what he’s going to say but needing to say something. Mr. Beck grabs his hips, hard, really hard, his hands feeling huge and hot, and slams into him, shoving Peter up on his toes, his hands pressing hard against the table. 

He thought Mr. Beck was fucking him hard, fast, _rough,_ before, but he was wrong; apparently that had been gentle after all, because now Mr. Beck isn’t holding back. He’s fucking Peter with so much force Peter can’t stay in place, sliding forward on the table as Mr. Beck slams into him, and it catches his dick painfully against the metal. Peter gasps, and pushes back just as Mr. Beck thrusts in again; he feels his hands starting to slip and in a panic, sticks himself to the table.

It helps, because now he can brace himself, isn’t having to deal with his own movement. But it makes things a little worse too because he isn’t moving with the force of Mr. Beck’s thrusts, is taking them all, the full length of Mr. Beck’s dick and smack of his skin against Peter’s ass, and it’s all super overwhelming. He can hear all that as much as he feels it, the slapping, wet noises and Mr. Beck's breath, his groans, Peter’s own panting whimpers, can smell it even, like his senses are all perking up at once, jerking him around. He drops his head to the table, the metal cold and wet under his cheek, and closes his eyes, everything blending together into one big, overloud feeling of fizzing static in his mind, in his limbs, like he’s on the edge of going numb but he can’t quite get there.

He’s not going to, either, because Mr. Beck puts a hand on the small of his back and pushes down, kicking at one of Peter’s legs at the same time; he sinks down a little lower than before, his back arched more, feeling more of an ache along the insides of his thighs. Mr. Beck pushes harder, and Peter doesn’t know if his back _can_ bend any further, but he tries. 

There’s a reason, Peter figures out on the next thrust, because this one brushes right over that spot from before, sending a shock up his spine; the next hits it directly, almost painfully, a bright burst of sensation that floods him. He moans, fighting to stay positioned just like that, hoping he can keep the way that feels; it’s just as overwhelming, but not bad, not taking him out of his body bad.

It’s better, and it gets better with every thrust, that panicky, hurting, _scared_ feeling shredding, replaced by something a whole lot better. This is where Mr. Beck was trying to get him to, he thinks, dazed, why he kept telling Peter to relax; it’s his own fault it took so long to get there, because Mr. Beck was trying to make it good for him. 

“Holy shit,” Peter gasps, “oh my god, Mr. Beck, yes. Don’t stop, please,” and this time, this time he really means it. 

Mr. Beck groans and slides his hand up Peter’s back, curling his hand around the back of Peter’s neck and shoving him down harder against the table, pushing him into it almost. Peter moans back, almost wishing Mr. Beck's hand was around the front of his throat instead, but this is good too. He’s hard again, finally, thankfully, and his dick is freaking throbbing, aching, slapping up against his stomach with each thrust.

He reaches down and wraps his hand around it, wet with precome and shudders with the frist stroke, clenching around Mr. Beck. 

“Knew you’d end up loving it rough,” Mr. Beck gasps, “you’re such a slut for this, aren’t you? Can’t keep your hands off yourself.”

It still feels like a sharp, cold shot to hear Mr. Beck call him that, and the embarrassment is still there, but it’s dull, shoved to the back of his mind, pushed aside by the feeling of Mr. Beck fucking him, of his hand on his dick, of getting closer and closer to coming, every thought gone except how good that will feel, how amazing it’s gonna be to come on Mr. Beck’s dick.

And then it is _too much._

He jerks his hand away from his dick, because he’s hit that awful point where he can’t stand to touch himself, where instead of feeling good, every single touch hurts. When he’s alone, when it’s just him and his hand and lying in bed, it sucks but he can deal with it, can just stop touching himself, stop moving at all until his body calms down. There’s no coming after that, but at least he can stop.

This, this isn’t anything like that, because even once Peter’s stopped touching himself, there’s still way too much feeling. Mr. Beck is still fucking him, is still touching him, is still moving him, every single thrust shoving Peter down against the table, there’s touch all over him and he can’t escape it. Even his dick, fuck, it doesn’t matter that Peter’s not touching it, because the way Mr. Beck is using him has it slapping up against his stomach, each time almost agony.

He whimpers, louder than before, and then again, even louder; he’s trying not to pull away from Mr. Beck, but he only seems to be able to control one thing at a time. “Please,” he whispers, “please, please,” and he doesn’t know if Mr. Beck will hear him, if Mr. Beck will even understand. How can he, when Peter doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, really? He just wants it to stop hurting, but it can’t if Mr. Beck keeps touching him and he doesn’t want that to stop—

“Oh, god,” he chokes out in response to one especially hard thrust, sending him skidding forward, his dick not just hitting his stomach but the edge of the table as well. He pants, short, harsh breaths that make him feel lightheaded, making these garbled sounds, not really words at all; almost sobs, and maybe they are, actually, because his eyes are watering again. Maybe it’s not just from squeezing them shut, and that’s bad, that’s really not good, he doesn’t want to cry. 

Peter yelps the next time his dick hits the desk, Mr. Beck buried balls deep in him. “What?” Mr. Beck says, groaning, breathless, “Fuck, what now?” and he sounds— annoyed. 

He’s not going to ruin this, Peter thinks, he’s not, so he’s going to stop crying right this second— or, or at least he’s not going to let Mr. Beck know, because then he’d stop and probably feel bad and Peter doesn’t want that at all. 

“It’s fine,” Peter manages, tucking his face further down, hoping that if there’s any sign of tears it’ll just look like sweat, or spit or something, cause he’s more than messy enough. 

“Fine?” and that definitely sounds annoyed.

Peter nods, jerkily. “Don’t stop,” he says, “just— don’t stop,” and brings his hand up from where it’s been gripping the edge of the table, bunching it into a fist and pressing it to his mouth.

It muffles the sound he makes when Mr. Beck thrusts into him, and the moan when Mr. Beck's hand tightens on his neck, pushing down hard. Muffles all the helpless, horrible noises Peter makes as Mr. Beck grips him like that and holds him in place as he fucks Peter, harder and faster, so hard, so, so hard. Peter can’t think, can’t hardly breathe with the way he’s crying, his face shoved down into the desk, snot blocking up his nose and dripping down to join the mess of drool on his face, on the metal. 

He hurts, it hurts, but it still— every couple of strokes, it feels blindingly good again, for a moment, good enough that it’s almost bad again, and even when it hurts he can’t tell anymore if it’s because it’s bad or because it’s too much; maybe it doesn’t matter, really, but it’s messing it all up in his head not to know. Is making him feel confused and frantic, like he doesn’t know if he’s feeling the right things, doing the right things, if he should fight against his body or his head or Mr. Beck or if he should give in and do— do what, he doesn’t know, he can’t tell.

Mr. Beck groans, his hands tightening painfully, and fucks him faster, shorter, a couple of times more before he stills deep inside Peter. He can feel it, how Mr. Beck’s dick is— pulsing, twitching inside him, can feel it all around his hole and inside and it’s like he’s hyper sensitive to it, the way it’s almost stillness after so much fucking. Almost, but not, not really, and he can even feel Mr. Beck’s come, he thinks. He’s pretty sure, at least, that’s what the sort of warm, squishy sensation deeper in is. Mr. Beck moves, again, fucking him in short little jerks, and that’s totally what he was feeling, because the drag of Mr. Beck’s dick is a little less, and there’s a sort of wet, slick feeling around the edge of his hole. 

Mr. Beck’s hand hits the table, right next to Peter’s face,and Peter watches as it flexes, tense against the metal. “Fuck,” Mr. Beck gasps, breathing heavily; Peter can feel Mr. Beck’s stomach against his back as he pants, can feel Mr. Beck all over him, looming, covering him up, pining him down. 

His other hand is on Peter’s ass, fingers digging in enough that it hurts a little, but then everything hurts a little, so maybe it’s not really a problem. Peter feels like— he doesn’t know what, he doesn't have a good word for it. Confused, maybe, because he doesn't know what he should do now. He should do something, right? Because it’s over— Mr. Beck came—came in him, came inside him holy shit—so it’s done, isn’t it? Even though Peter didn't, _can't._ So should he do something, or say something, or like, move, maybe? Except Mr. Beck’s dick is still inside him, still feels hard, so maybe it’s not done? Maybe he should ask? Or just ask if it was good for Mr. Beck, if Peter did ok and didn’t fuck up? He came, though, so Peter can’t have done too bad, can he?

He just doesn’t know what to _do._

Mr. Beck groans, low, before he pushes up away from Peter, his skin sticking against Peter’s for a second before they separate, and Peter feels a lot colder without Mr. Beck on him. Mr. Beck’s dick shifts in him, and then it’s pulling out, not just partway like before but all the way out; it feels like it goes on forever, like it’s longer than is even humanly possible, and when it’s gone Peter feels… empty.

How is that even a thing he can feel, Peter thinks, uncertainly. It felt weird—good, some of the time, and bad, and… a lot of things, but weird for sure—to have Mr. Beck’s dick in him, but it feels just as weird to have it gone. He feels not just empty, unfilled, but gaping, like there’s a hole in him— god, that’s so fucking dumb, it is a hole but it’s never felt like that was a bad thing before, it’s never felt like it needed to be filled. 

He shivers, tensing a little, and— oh, oh my god, that’s. He’s. He can feel this wetness sliding down the crease of his ass, can feel it tracing down his balls, like little tendrils of ice, and that’s, that’s totally Mr. Beck’s come, just dripping right out of him. That’s so _gross._

Mr. Beck rubs his hand over Peter’s ass and pushes his thumb right up against his hole; it slides in, super easy, so little that Peter barely feels it except for the way it makes more come drip out of him. Then Mr. Beck’s hand is gone, and instead there’s something thicker, something hotter, rubbing up between his cheeks. Mr. Beck’s dick, Peter realizes after a second, and Mr. Beck must be holding it, dragging the head up and down his crease, over his hole and smearing all that wetness around.

He teases the head against Peter’s hole, pressing against it like he’s going to push in again but not, just enough to feel really weird and invasive. Peter almost wishes he would just shove it back in, because maybe then he wouldn’t feel so horribly empty. 

Gets his wish a second later, the head of Mr. Beck’s dick popping in, and he doesn’t understand at all how it can still feel so big and make him ache so much when he feels so empty. He doesn’t wish it after all, he thinks, as Mr. Beck thrusts in a little more, and pulls back, he doesn’t, not if it means it’s just going to start up all over again. He doesn’t think he can take that right now.

He gets that wish too, Mr. Beck pulling out all the way after another short stroke, taking a step or two back. His hands are on Peter’s ass, spreading him open, and if Peter had the energy he’d try to squirm away from it. All he seems to be able to do right now is lie here, though, so he tries to ignore that twisting, roiling embarrassment in his gut at being seen like this, examined like this.

Mr. Beck whistles. “Damn, kid,” he says, “take a look at you. All opened up and well fucked; no one’s going to think your pretty little pink hole is virgin anymore.”

Peter can’t even _think._

He jerks, though, completely unintentional, when Mr. Back slaps his ass, the noise horribly loud. “Now that is a sweet piece of ass,” Mr. Beck says, and it’s just— he’s saying it just like he’d tell Peter that he’d done a good job on a mission, or that he’d said something smart, just as nice and fond and pleased about this as anything else.

So Peter shouldn’t feel like crying because of it; Mr. Beck is saying something nice, right? It shouldn’t make Peter feel like this, like he’s some sort of… piece of meat, something that doesn’t really exist, doesn’t need to have a voice or a mind or any thoughts at all, just a piece of ass to be fucked.

Tell that to his stupid eyes, because he can’t seem to stop how they’re watering, how there are still tears running down his face, dripping slowly onto the table. They kind of tickle as they slide over the bridge of his nose and down his temple, and it’s easier to think about that than anything else. Why is he being such a baby about this?

Maybe— maybe he did think that it would be a little different, that his first time would be… gentler, or nicer, or at least on a bed. That there might be more kissing and more touching and more— he doesn't know what to call it, something that would make him feel less like he might have made a mistake. He hadn’t really meant for this to happen like this, hadn’t meant for anything to happen beyond telling Mr. Beck he liked him, maybe some kisses. Why hadn’t he, though? Mr. Beck is an actual adult, so of course he’d want a little more than some awkward kissing. What was Peter really thinking would happen?

Actually— actually, what was he thinking all along? Why did he do this, do any of this, what was he _thinking?_

He feels a little lightheaded, a little dizzy almost, as he asks himself that, as the reality of what he’s done suddenly seems to crash down on him. He never meant to lose his virginity like this, never meant to just have sex on a whim like that, just out of nowhere. Yeah, he likes Mr. Beck, he likes him a lot, but at the same time— why did he just go along with it? Why didn’t he care more about waiting a little, about— about at least not doing it in a freaking room at SHIELD? 

He didn’t really want it like this! He didn’t. Did he? Mr. Beck had asked, and Peter hadn’t said no, so he did want it, somewhat, right? Mr. Beck did ask, kinda. But— this isn’t what he wanted. What is he even doing? 

He wishes he could go back, could do it different, could just… make it clear that he hadn’t wanted it quite so rough, or fast, that he wanted— he wanted something a little sweeter, he guesses, something that wouldn’t make him feel so disgusting and worthless and— _used,_ but how can he say that now? Now is too late, he can’t undo this. And it’s his fault, because it’s not like he said anything at all except yes. Fuck, why can’t he stop crying? This is awful, he feels awful and stupid and like such a dumb, idiot kid; what is he going to say when Mr. Beck notices?

*

Fuck, that was fun. Completely unexpected, Beck thinks, but more than worthwhile. 

Had he planned for his little suggestions and hints under the influence to take on a life of their own, and produce… this? This little crush, or obsession, whatever the hell it is? Obviously not, but he’s going to run with it. Having Peter available—more, having that ass, that fucking mouth—whenever he wants? Talk about a bonus. 

Peter’s still draped over the table after Beck’s managed to clean himself up a bit and resituate his costume, limp and sprawled out. His ass is perfectly on display, red, the imprint of Quentin’s hand still visible, come dripping down from his hole. It’s more than a little tempting to shove his fingers back in and watch Peter squirm on them, listen to him whimper and see if he can get him to beg like the slut he is. 

He steps to Peter’s side and gets a handful of hair, pulling Peter’s head up enough to look at him; is he actually passed out, or just having a hard time pulling himself together? 

He’s a fucking mess, that’s what he is. His face is wet with drool and tears, all over the table as well, and he looks completely out of it, glassy eyed, mouth hanging open. He’s even shaking a little, and— actually, he’s a little pale. And those are maybe a few too many tears, that are still coming. 

“Peter?” he says. “Hey, kid, come on.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Sniffles. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have done that, I should have—” He shudders, trying to turn his face away from Beck. “Why did I do that?” Peter says, his voice going higher. “Oh my god, why did I— what was I thinking, why did I— I didn’t mean, I didn’t want—”

Shit, Beck thinks. This is not good. _Goddamnit._ He should have known that sort of conditioning wouldn’t hold up to any real pressure, not when it only produced this by accident. And it’s not like he can just let it go, now. The last thing he needs is fucking Spiderman feeling like Beck’s raped him. 

“Hey,” he says, as gently as he can, bringing his other hand up like he’s going to touch Peter’s face. “Come on, look at me, you’re ok.” Presses the release on the gas, right as Peter turns back to look at him, confused and scared. 

He gives it a good thirty seconds to get into Peter’s system, and then coaxes Peter up until he’s sitting on the edge of the table. Waits, a little longer, watching Peter’s eyes as they start to focus. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Beck tells him, Peter staring at him. “Calm down, kid, it’s going to be ok,” and there, there it goes, Peter’s pupils going huge and dark as he shakes his head a little, squinting as the light probably seems to get a lot brighter. 

At least he knows what to build off, this time. “You trust me,” he says, carefully. “Right?” Peter nods, a little loosely. “So you can believe it when I tell you that you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I didn’t?” Peter says, almost slurring. 

“You didn’t,” Beck confirms. “You liked it, and that’s ok!” he adds, as Peter’s brow furrows, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide. “It’s perfectly ok to like what we did. It’s fine to like stuff you didn’t think you would. Or to like stuff you think you should be embarrassed by— you don’t have to be embarrassed when you’re with me, Peter. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Peter says slowly. “You won’t make it weird.”

“Right,” Beck says. “You don’t really regret that. Not really, do you?” Peter hesitates. “Because I liked it,” Beck pushes. “And you wanted to make me happy, didn’t you?”

“I want to make you happy,” Peter parrots. “I don’t— I don’t regret that,” he adds, a little more certain. 

“Of course not,” Beck says. “And you’re glad you came to me with it. Aren’t you?”

“Yes?” Peter frowns, and then shakes his head again, harder. “Yes,” he repeats. “I am.”

“There’s nothing to get upset about,” Beck tells him.

“Of course not,” Peter says, and Beck almost laughs at how Peter’s repeating him. “Nothing to be upset about. I liked it, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Beck says. “You liked it a lot, honey. And I’m sure you’ll like it the next time just as much.”

Peter smiles this time, small, but there. “I will,” he says, “I want a next time.” 

“Well, you’ll get it,” and yeah, Beck will make sure of that. “Come here,” he adds, catching Peter’s chin and guiding him closer. He kisses him, softer than he really wants, but he still needs to be a little careful. 

Peter’s eyes are still closed when Beck pulls away, and he looks more relaxed. “I liked that,” he says again. “I like making you happy. I’m not embarrassed by that.” 

Excellent. “Why don’t you get cleaned up,” Beck says. “Go home and sleep on it, alright? We can talk some more tomorrow, if you need to. Or if you just want to. Or,” he says, smiling, a little sly, “if you want to do something other than talking.”

“Ok,” Peter says, passively, and starts putting himself to rights. 

Beck waits just long enough to be sure Peter’s going to be able to get home under his own power, and then leaves. No point in waiting around, that he’s done fixing that little mess. 

Which is actually a good thing, he thinks, because now— now he doesn’t have to be quite as careful, does he. He can have Peter any way he’d like, regardless of what Peter has to say about it, because if Peter objects… well, after, he can always make Peter think differently. Think whatever Beck wants him to think is true. 

After all, Mysterio is the truth.


End file.
